Tilda chewed her entire half of the roll. It protruded like a walnut in a squirrel’s cheek. “You’re welcome.” The lump in her mouth muddled her words. “If you go to the shop tomorrow, we could share another. They wouldn’t recognize you, and might be more likely to share.”
Stella nodded. “What do you think Dr. Hazzard will do if she catches us?”
“I’d hate to find out.” Tilda picked a crumb off her chest and popped it into her mouth. “Probably make us start all over.”
“How are you feeling?” Stella followed her example, not letting a single speck fall to the ground untasted. “Has any of this helped you?”
“I think it has.” Tilda’s eyes brightened. “I used to get headaches every day, but they’re less frequent now. Hopefully this indulgence won’t set me too far back.” She chewed her lip.
“You were truly hungry.” Stella squeezed her arm. “It wasn’t just a craving. And Dr. Hazzard herself said that feeding cravings is at the heart of the problem.”
“Time will tell the real state of things, I suppose.” Tilda blew into her hand and breathed in. “I have to go in for my massage in an hour. Do you think she’ll smell the bread on my breath?”
“If you drink plenty of water beforehand, I doubt she would.”
They strode toward their cabins together. Would eating such a small ration really set them back as Tilda feared? Stella glanced at her friend, who rubbed her willowy hands against her skirt in a nervous fashion. This might be the true test of Dr. Hazzard’s methods.
If breaking her fast with half a bread roll brought on a fresh headache, there may be more to Linda Hazzard’s belief in digestion than Stella gave it credit for. Nevertheless, she’d been fasting for over a week, and her pain had not dulled in the slightest. Had Tilda really seen improvement, or did she simply wish she had?
Chapter Twenty
Stella stepped into the main house, dreading the internal bath she would receive. Each treatment lasted longer than the previous one. Her first, while unpleasant, had involved only half an hour of suffering. Yesterday’s had extended to more than three hours. Why? Were there really so many toxins in her body that had not yet been eliminated?
Fear wrapped clammy fingers around her heart. When Dr. Hazzard examined the contents of her bowels, would she know Stella had eaten solid food? Would there be consequences? She pulled in a breath. Please, God. Don’t let her find out.
As she walked past the dining room entry, a voice flitted to her ears.
“Please, Dora, you must eat something. Claire would have wanted you to.”
Stella peeked her head inside. The Australian woman, Margaret Conway, held a spoon of tomato broth to Dora’s lips. The emaciated woman sipped then gagged.
“How are you feeling today, Dora?” Stella stepped beside her and patted her shriveled hand.
Dora sent her a tight smile.
“She’s trying,” Margaret answered for her. “But I fear I’m not able to get food into her fast enough to make much of a difference.” She cut a glance at the doorway and lowered her voice. “She’s so weak, she can’t chew. So I’m left with nothing more substantial than this tomato broth. I don’t know what to do.” Worry drew lines across her forehead.
“She’ll recover, in time?” How had Dr. Hazzard let Dora grow so weak? Surely if she’d fasted this long, any desire for nourishment would be born of necessity, not craving.
Moisture glittered in Margaret’s eyes. “Oh, I hope so. If only I’d known they thought to come to this place, I would have tried my hardest to talk them out of it.”
The wall clock chimed. Time for her appointment. Stella moved toward the door then turned to Margaret. “I’ll pray for her.”
“Thank you.”
Stella walked back to the cabin, clutching her stomach. Her legs wobbled with each step, and her middle still swam with the sensation of flowing water. Why had Dr. Hazzard settled on such harsh and demeaning methods of promoting healing?
When she reached her cabin, she stopped. The door stood ajar. She had closed it when she left. Had someone entered uninvited while she was away?
She pressed the door open, and the hinges squeaked. Light crept in through the doorway, illuminating overturned chairs, open drawers, and clothing scattered over the floor. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.
Who had ransacked her cabin, and why?
Dr. Hazzard must be informed. If a burglar was preying on her patients, she’d be indignant. Stella returned to the house as quickly as her legs could carry her.
“Dr. Hazzard!” she called from the foyer.
Footsteps thudded overhead.
Stella hurried to the staircase and met the doctor in her descent.
“What is it, Miss Burke?” Frustration dripped from Dr. Hazzard’s every word. “This is a place of healing, and I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.”
“My cabin.” Stella pointed toward the door. “Someone sneaked inside while I was here. They’ve torn the place apart.”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Hazzard planted her fists on her hips. “You’re imagining things.”
“Come, see for yourself.” Stella started for the door. “What if I was robbed? The police should be summoned at once.”
Anger fueled Stella’s trek back to the cabin. She pushed the door open wide and motioned Dr. Hazzard inside. “I’m not imagining anything.”
The doctor’s shoes clapped on the floorboards and she let out a low whistle. “This is very real.” She crossed her arms. Though her brow wrinkled, her demeanor lacked surprise.
Stella studied the woman as she set a chair on its legs. Something was off with her reaction. “Are you going to alert the sheriff?”
“Take an inventory of all that’s missing. Bring it to me, and I’ll see it gets to the authorities.” Dr. Hazzard straightened the haunting picture on the wall.
Sighing, Stella nodded. “Very well. But I’d like to speak with an officer when he arrives.”
“That can be arranged.” Dr. Hazzard strode out the door then turned on her heel. “Clean this mess up. I don’t stand for untidy cabins.” With those abrasive words, she left Stella alone.
She didn’t stand for untidy cabins? Stella pinched the bridge of her nose. Was the state of disorganization all the woman had taken away from the scene? She hadn’t even offered an apology that Stella had been burglarized while under her care.
“The nerve.” Stella glanced at the drawing, and the little boy grinned. “As nasty as you are, you know I’m right. I’m a client, and she acted as if I had invited the problem—caused it. Well, I’ll show her. I won’t clean this place. I didn’t make the mess, so the responsibility shouldn’t be mine.”
As she slumped onto the chair, arms crossed, her mind traveled to Wendell. Her overturned chairs and rumpled clothing paled in comparison to his treatment at Wilderness Heights. Memories of the gunfire and Rollie dragging the body into the woods had never been far from her mind, but with her life in shambles around her, they flooded in like the breaking of a dam. When she spoke with an officer about the break-in, she must tell them of Wendell. His death could not go unpunished.
Had it really been Dr. Hazzard who pulled the trigger? Maybe Stella had dreamed it. But if it had been only a dream that stemmed from an overwrought imagination, where was Wendell? She hadn’t seen him since that night.
And she’d heard Dr. Hazzard’s voice, warning him to get back in the house. Stella plucked at her lip. Why had she killed him? For wanting to leave the property? For neglecting the rest of his treatment? Trigger-happy lunatic.
Stella glanced around the disheveled cabin. Would her disobedience garner the same punishment? Her chest prickled and tightened. She had to survive until Henry arrived to take her home. Obedience, compliance, may be her only life preserver until then. She snatched a dress off the floor and stood. As she folded it, her mind calculated the hours until she could reasonably expect him.
She’d requested Dr. Hazzard give the message to Rollie to s
end yesterday morning. Stella had seen the fear in his eyes when his mother was mentioned. He would have sent it the moment she asked. Henry should have received it within hours. Where between San Francisco and Olalla would he be now? Maybe Oregon.
She stuffed the folded dress in her bag. When she reached for another, her open jewelry casket caught her eye. She lifted it, ran her finger along the velvet liner. Gone. All her valuables had been plundered.
None mattered much. They were just things. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her ear. Her earrings. The violet amethysts Mama had given her. Unshed tears scalded her nose. No. Of all the things she owned, not Mama’s earrings.
She rifled through the jumble on the floor, praying they’d fallen under a pile of stockings and been overlooked by the robber.
No. No, no, no.
Empty-handed, Stella slouched against the bed, burying her face in her hands. Sobs racked her chest, and tears drenched her palms. If they’d taken every stitch of clothing she owned, every other piece of jewelry, she’d have readily given them up. But Mama’s earrings? Those tiny amethysts were all Stella had left of her.
Stella dashed moisture from her eyes. This place was breaking her apart bit by bit. Crushing her beneath a weight of hunger and loss. And Dr. Hazzard only cared that the cabin was untidy.
With a sigh, she grabbed her journal and tore out a page. Maybe if she made a comprehensive list, the police could locate her earrings. Clinging to that thin thread of hope, she jotted down her missing items, placing the violet amethysts at the top of the list.
After setting the page on the table, she gathered an armload of dresses, skirts, and stockings and dropped them onto the bed. If she didn’t clean up, the consequences could be dire.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stella’s head throbbed, and her empty stomach added its alto complaints to the symphony. She pulled the quilt higher and worked to ignore the discomfort. What time was it? When she opened her eyes, fingers of moonlight touched the floor and illuminated the picture above the table.
The child’s face came to life, and he laughed. A malicious sound. “You’ll never get out of here alive.” His voice sounded deeper than any child’s she’d ever heard. “I saw what happened to Sue in that bed. You’re next.” He pointed a chubby finger at her, and fire ignited in his eyes.
Fear coiled around her heart, tightening until Stella’s chest threatened to burst. She clamped her hands over her ears. This had to be a dream or some cruel trick. Sue had likely died in this bed. Death’s chilling breath blew against her neck. Stella threw off the covers, leaped to the floor, and scrambled onto the chair. It wouldn’t take her too.
She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. The curtain at the window fluttered on a breeze. Had the kiss of death been nothing more than her half-addled brain twisting a bit of reality? Or was it real? She rubbed a hand over her neck. It had felt real.
A glance at the picture showed the boy had returned to his lifeless lines and curves behind the frame. Her breath sawed from her lungs, burning with every inhale.
She’d read stories in her history books with Henry. Tales of men and women delirious with hunger during the Great Famine in Slovakia. They’d seen things that weren’t there when their bellies were empty. She pressed a hand to her stomach. The breeze, the child—were they symptoms of starvation? Her ribs were more pronounced than ever beneath her fingers.
The roll she’d shared with Tilda came to mind, leaving her head feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton. She imagined taking a bite of the roll, worked her jaw as if she were chewing. Her tongue reminded her of the yeasty taste and grainy texture. Sighing, she swallowed nothing but air.
She propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands, avoiding eye contact with the picture. Sleep had fled to a place much more pleasant than this cabin. She struck a match and touched the flame to the wick. No use sleeping now.
Tomorrow she would find that bakery. If the shopkeeper gave her a roll, she didn’t have to tell Tilda. If she ate it in the woods before returning to the walking trails, she could eat every morsel. Her mouth watered, but something prodded her chest from the inside. That wouldn’t be kind. Tilda had given half of hers away.
Stella massaged her temples. What a selfish monster she’d become. Though she often thought of herself before others, hunger had magnified her self-centered attitude and turned her into a person she didn’t like. Her mother’s choice to focus on others should remedy that. Stella prayed for the children from the alley. Then prayed for Dora and Tilda. Maybe Henry could find a way to help them escape Wilderness Heights too.
She poured a glass of water and gulped it, wishing it were broth—even that horrid lima bean broth would offer some nutritional benefits. The black sky had faded to gray, and the sun peeked over the hilltop, spewing orange light through the cabin’s tiny windows. Stella stood on tiptoe and glimpsed the sky. Blueberry clouds rimmed with strawberry sunlight. Would she ever stop thinking in terms of food?
The clock on the wall informed her that the bakery in Olalla wouldn’t be open for several hours. What to do until then? Best to avoid walking the trails and save her strength for the trek into town.
If she sat within these four walls a moment longer, she might lose her mind. Dr. Hazzard’s tales of healing people who suffered mental maladies replayed in her ears. Had the people she purported to help had problems before coming to her? She’d said Mrs. Barnett lived with bouts of melancholy. Had she really? Or had enduring the doctor’s treatments—starving herself—plied her mind into shapeless putty?
Was the hunger causing Stella to lose her mind? She glanced at the picture. Did the little boy in the frame blink? Tears in her eyes, she looked away. Was she going crazy?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The forest floor was spongy beneath Stella’s feet. Her back and shoulders ached from the morning’s beating that had masqueraded as a massage. Though Tilda had given her directions to the town and shop, the unfamiliar surroundings closed around Stella, making her second-guess her steps. Was she lost? If she failed to return for her internal bath, would Sam Hazzard bother to come looking for her, or would they leave her to die? Both thoughts horrified in equal measure.
A row of buildings peeked between thinning trees. Olalla. The town was smaller than she had pictured it, more of a village, really. But what did that matter as long as she returned with food? She stepped out of the woods, her eyes latching onto the clapboard building with a sign bearing the name OLALLA MERCANTILE, just as Tilda had described.
An automobile sputtered to a stop outside the shop, and a familiar figure stepped out. Stella froze. Sam Hazzard. If he saw her, he’d know exactly why she was here. He’d tell his wife, and heaven knew the consequences Stella would face. She darted between the trees to watch him enter the mercantile.
Should she turn back or wait until he left to fulfill her craving? No. This was more than a craving. This was hunger. If she’d learned anything from her stay at Wilderness Heights, it was the difference between those two sensations.
Her stomach coiled in on itself, as if realizing how close it was to sustenance. She’d stay. Besides, if the hunger was making her hallucinate, she would rather Henry not find her in such a state when he arrived. It wouldn’t be long now. Her heart skipped. Would he be as overjoyed to see her as she would be to see him?
Their last encounter had been rocky, but after she apologized for her behavior, maybe he would come around. Would it be proper to tell him how much she cared for him? She sniffed. What did that matter anymore? Propriety bore no weight in matters of the heart.
But Uncle Weston paid his wages. If he loved her, he may not feel at liberty to say.
Or he might not love her after all. She bit her lip. If she shared her heart with him then discovered he didn’t feel the same, she would surely die of shame.
She shook off the gathering gloom that had curled its dark fingers around her. These thoughts were premature. Besides, she’d
seen the look in Henry’s eye at Dr. Hazzard’s office in Seattle. He’d wanted to tell her something then, something personal and heartfelt, but she’d hushed him. He felt more than friendship for her. He must.
A breeze whistled through the trees, making the leaves rustle and alternately glisten and dull. What was Sam doing in the mercantile that should take so long? Purchasing cans of tomato broth and orange juice really couldn’t be so time-consuming. After charging exorbitant rates to reside in tiny shacks and feeding her patients either nothing or liquid, how could Dr. Hazzard sleep at night? Maybe that was why she left the lamps burning day and night. Although conning people out of their money wasn’t the worst the woman seemed capable of. That crime paled in comparison to murdering Claire, or at the very least harboring her killer. And then there was poor Wendell’s cold-blooded killing. He had been accurate all those days ago when he’d said something wasn’t right with Dr. Hazzard. And he had mentioned the doctor insisting he sign legal documents and put his valuables in her safe.
Why? To steal them?
What were those papers she had so desperately sought his signature on?
Stella shuddered. Dr. Hazzard had never suggested safeguarding Stella’s jewelry, but now it was gone too. Had the doctor opted to take them without Stella’s permission and bypass the hassle of asking? Or had her devoted husband and fearful son completed the job on her behalf?
Sam exited the shop, a briefcase in hand, and climbed into the motorcar. No tomato broth. He turned in the seat and planted his feet on the ground once more, eyes fixed on the tree line where she hid.
As she ducked farther into the foliage, her heart climbed into her throat. Had he seen her? She held her breath, though he couldn’t possibly hear her from his position near the store.
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